


A Light on the Water

by JJ_Shinnick



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Great Gatsby fusion, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Shinnick/pseuds/JJ_Shinnick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Great Gatsby fusion au]</p><p>Dr. David Strider attends a party thrown by the enigmatic John Egbert.  Porn ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light on the Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt for SemperJuris:
> 
> ok. let's go with John/Dave, preferably with sarcastic!Rose giving them relationship advice. kinks...kinks..spanking Dave, because he's so pale.  
> obviously top!John  
> uh. make it a no sburb au. might as well add in something about blowjobs and face slapping. 
> 
> So I said Great Gatsby au as a joke. And then I wrote it, because I'm... like that. Mountains of thanks to my lovely betas, B and Sir Lark.

You let the doorman take your coat, a paisley number that you never meant to be taken seriously. He compliments you on it quite sincerely and you manage not to roll your eyes. The pair of smoked driving glasses you always wear would hide that, anyway—but best not to get into any bad habits. Your wife smiles at you briefly, and you know she understands. She's never been quite sympathetic to your ironic approach to life, but it makes her laugh. She's led you to believe that's important.

  
“Dr. David Strider and Mrs. Rose Strider.” She takes your arm as you're announced, and you make your grand entrance down the staircase. You've never been sure if the masterpiece of appalling wealth and ostentation reflects John's taste, or merely what he felt he ought to have, but the effect is flawless. You make your way into the perfectly respectable crush below, confident to the point of laziness. You're Dave Strider. You have the most beautiful woman in the room on your arm, or you did until she spots an old acquaintance and crosses the room to renew it. She's laughing in her beaded blue gown, dressed for dancing.

It makes you regret, for a moment, that your marriage is a sham. You would have liked to want her properly, instead of merely knowing she's beautiful because you have eyes. But that was never what Rose wanted either, so here the two of you are—at a party thrown by the enigmatic John Egbert, who you quickly realize is nowhere in the room. Rose returns to you just as you reach this conclusion, and smiles up at you.

  
“He's hiding again, isn't he?” she asks, and you nod. “Then go after him.” She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and you thank God again for your wife. She wraps her arms around you and whispers in your ear, and to anyone else it must seem lewd, “Go find your boyfriend. Make sure he's enjoying his party.” You shiver, and kiss her on the cheek.

  
“Enjoy yourself, darling,” you tell her. She'll dance with every man here tonight, and the rumors will be flying by dawn. That's okay. The rumors are always flying. She giggles, and lets you go before wandering off in the direction of the refreshments table.

You go in search of your wayward friend. The staff know you; it's a thing of no great difficulty to slip beyond the party and into more private space. You don't bother being stealthy about it. John isn't hard to find, at least for someone who knows his mind as well as you do. He's in his study. Not the private one, full of well-worn books and strange mechanical contraptions. This is his 'presentable' study, and everything is gleaming wood and butter-soft leather and the great windows give off a view of the bay, and far at the end of his dock a little green light. It's completely dark, but you know better than to be put off by that. The man himself is standing behind the massive slab of oak that makes up the desk, looking out at that light, framed by it in his plain black suit.

“John,” you say, and he turns, just the edge of a smile caught on his lips like a left-over from earlier. It deepens when he sees you, into something you might mistake for the real thing if you'd never known John at all.

“Dave,” he replies. “Did Rose not come tonight?” That's the reason for his faked smile, you think. Not this again.

“My wife,” you say, and stress the word unkindly, “is in the ballroom with the rest of your guests, having an excellent time. She sent me, if that helps.” He looks taken aback by that, and you bask in the familiarity of his features. Limned by only the light on the dock, you cannot tell if he is handsome anymore, only that he is very much beloved.

“Oh,” he says, and articulates it as neatly as a word. “I suppose that does put a different spin on things.” You move forward to stand in front of the desk, restraining yourself from touching him only out of uncertainty as to whether you are allowed, today, to touch him.

“On what?” You ask, fixate on his half-shadowed face. You see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“On what I'm allowed to want.” His voice is very soft as he leans forward across the desk, but it is only to remove your driving glasses. You can see him a little better, and for that you forgive him the sudden vulnerability he's forced on you.

“I don't care if you want to eat the universe,” you tell him, soft and deadly certain. “You know what I want.” He nods, a little sad.

“Surely, there are things I'm not allowed to want.”

“Nothing,” you breathe. “There are things you can't have, but I am not one of them. And there is not a fucking thing you aren't allowed to want.” His hand returns, caresses your cheek. Reverses motion and smacks you across the face. You grin at him as your heart picks up tempo at the same time the music in the ballroom swells. You can hear it, even here, but they can't hear you over it.

“On your knees, then,” and here's the man you love wrapped in starlight and benevolent malice. You drop.  
John comes around the desk, moving like a different man. This is a panther's stalk as he caresses your face again, and you know he can feel the heat where your cheek is still stinging. He turns on the desk lamp with his free hand.

“So pretty like this,” he tells you. “Your face should always match your eyes.” Then it does because you're blushing, a helpless reflex you've never quite been able to control. You can feel yourself dropping into a new frame of mind, the one where this is everything you've ever wanted and some things you didn't know to want. John slides off his jacket and slings it over the desk, then rolls up his sleeves with mathematic precision. You watch his hands and can't look away. “So quiet,” he remarks, when both sleeves are buttoned out of the way.

“What do you want me to say?” you ask, and it takes you two tries because your throat is dry. He slaps you on the other side, open-handed and completely untelegraphed.

“I'll tell you when you should be talking,” he says, conversationally. “I was just pointing it out.” You shiver and look up at him, admiring the solidness of his body, the breadth of his shoulders. “Stand up, I think I'll have you on the couch tonight.” You rise without having to think about it, crossing over to the hulking leather beast John keeps in the study for guests. This whole room is for guests, for show, and there's a certain thrill to doing this here. John picked everything in this room to be seen, and it's nice to pretend for a moment that includes you. “Strip,” he tells you.

You force yourself to slow down enough that you won't rip your clothing. That's all the patience you have as you shuck out of your pants, out of your carefully tailored shirt, and dump them in a pile on the floor. John watches you, leaning against the desk, still far too poised.

“Fold them,” he says, and you know it's just to watch you squirm, watch you wait, and you would growl at him but it's so fucking perfect. You fold them carefully, neatly, because if you have to do it again you're going to scream. When you finish John takes them from you, and sets them on the desk beside his carelessly discarded jacket. He lets his suspenders slip down his shoulders to hang at his sides, and comes back over to you. You know better than to rise from the floor.

John's hand knots in your hair, tipping your head back roughly. He doesn't kiss you. He won't, you know, until after. He palms the bulge in his pants with the hand that isn't holding you, and he looks desperate. “I really don't think I should like hurting you,” John says. You open your mouth and he yanks on your hair.

You close it. “But if you're not going to condemn me for it I'm not going to stop.” He releases your hair, pets it a bit. “But I'm not going to give you the chance, either.” You whine, just a little, in the back of your throat. You mean it as reassurance, but John stands and leaves you kneeling.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. “Beg me for it.” You're not sure you can find your voice with both hands and a map, but you wet your lips and try it anyway. It's the only option, in the face of how much you want.

“I want...” you look around a little, take in the room again with this precarious offer on the table. An idea occurs, but you push it away. You don't want to push him too far. “I want to blow you.” John chuckles.

“Dave, I know you. What else do you want?” You feel yourself blushing again, helpless. You're always helpless for him and you can't believe he hasn't realized it yet.

“I want you to put me over your knee.” At his look of confusion you add, “spank me. Sir.” You can watch the word hit him, his hungry gaze grow avid as the pupils dilate an extra fraction of an inch. It might be the suggestion but you're willing to bet it's the word. “Please, sir.” You say again, and John all but throws himself onto the couch and pulls you onto his lap. He settles you carefully, like something breakable, then brings his hand down hard.

The crack of flesh on flesh is the sweetest thing you've ever heard, the distant music from the party a close second. Fire runs across your skin and settles into your veins as he finds his rhythm. Face-down you can still feel his eyes on you, the hunger in the hand he holds curled over your hip. You're quiet while he spanks you. You couldn't imagine marring the moment with your own noise. You don't until he stops, runs his hand gently down the back of your thigh and you hiss.

“Perfect red hand prints,” he tells you, a bit of a growl to his voice that you had never heard before the two of you started whatever this is. “You show marks so beautifully.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say, and it comes out breathless.

“Time for your second wish,” he growls, and lifts you bodily to set you on your knees in front of him. You land on your ass and yelp, and when you look at his face he's on the edge of laughing at you. That stops when you reach for his fly, and he bats your hands away. “No hands,” he tells you. He loosens his tie and slips it over his head, using it to bind your hands behind your back. “To help you remember.”

You bare your teeth at him, and he does laugh this time. It isn't particularly unkind. You marvel at him again, how he can hurt and debase you and never leave you doubting that he loves you. You reflect on this for the moment it takes you to realize you're about to try to unbutton his fly with your teeth, and he'd better love you. You bend to it and it's awkward and fumbling and you can feel yourself flushing with embarrassment. The weight of his amusement only makes it worse. You get the button on the third try and drag the zip down with your teeth and after that he isn't quite so amused. John has helpfully neglected to wear underwear, something you take shameless advantage of.

You get your mouth on him as soon as humanly possible. He tastes like skin, warm and salty, and you keep eye contact with him as your roll your tongue across the head. You tease him a bit, watching him watch you, and wait for him to make you do more. It's not that you don't want more. You just want him to make you. John very helpfully obliges, grabbing you by the hair, but when he pushes in it's still pretty gentle. You fight not to choke and manage to swallow him down, loving the slick press of him into you. Someone is consuming here, and someone is being consumed, but in a heady moment of power you aren't quite sure which. You're bound and on your knees—there should be no question who's in charge, but you know better. He pulls you away before you can make him come, and you pant up at him with a grin on your face you wouldn't know how to try to hide.

“You gonna fuck me?” You ask him. It's moments like this your accent comes out, low-bred verging on guttersnipe, and you know it makes him crazy. John's eyes are sparking blue fire as he pushes you back, a growl caught in his throat.

“Only if you ask me nicely.” And it's never been hard to beg John, because you know, you know that he'd give you the earth and the stars if you glanced longingly that direction.

“Please John, please fuck me, I want you inside me, please sir,” it falls from your wet mouth in a loose string, and you can see the moment it hits him, all incandescent joy and hungry need. He strips you, loosing the tie from your wrists in the process, and then your hands are on him as greedy as you've always been. It's a sign of how far gone he is that he lets you, just pulls the tube of slick from somewhere (was that inside the couch?) and starts prepping you with something that could be gentleness if it wasn't so achingly desperate. By the time he deems it enough it's almost too much, and you come all over yourself and the couch as he slides into you, slow as a dream of molasses. He fucks you through it, ragged sparks clouding your vision with each thrust as you relax bonelessly into his hold. This is your safety, your citadel, your home, and you wish for a painfully clear moment that you could stay like this forever. But nothing good lasts, and eventually John comes with a cry he muffles with a bite to your shoulder. It will linger, you know, like a brand beneath your white dress shirt.

You wish the fabric were thinner so everyone could see.

“Dave,” John says, after eternity has passed in the span of a few minutes. He withdraws from you, cuddling you close for a moment like he can't help himself. He mutters something you can't make out into your neck, but you would swear it was three words, three syllables that he won't say where anyone can hear him.

“I love you too,” you say, and feel him stiffen, and let you go with a wordless sigh that you feel down in your bones. You've never had any problem with the words; you know how you feel, and if the rest of the world would just get over its hang-ups they would too. But that isn't how John is, and you can't make him anything else. Wouldn't if you could, probably, but it's just as well you'll never have to test that theory.

“You should get back to the party,” John says, and his voice is wrecked like he'd been the one with a cock down his throat. That's what you get, you think, for spending that much effort biting back your words.

“I can stay a little longer,” you reply, and grab his hand, lacing your fingers together. It's a curiously innocent gesture considering his hand prints still bloomed red on your cheek and your ass, his come still slick inside you, but draws a tiny smile out of him.

“Just a little longer,” he repeats. The music slows and stills an hour before sunrise finds you, tangled together on the couch. The green light on the end of the dock flickers for a moment, and winks out.


End file.
